The Red Siren (16 page)

C
losing the front door on Sir Wilhelm’s appalled, bloated face, Faith blew out a sigh and leaned back against the oak slab.
      “I’ll be in my chamber,” Grace shouted as she bounded up the stairs.
      Sweeping the bonnet from her head, Hope giggled. “You shouldn’t treat your betrothed with such disregard.” A playful gleam danced across her eyes.
      “He is not my betrothed, and I simply refuse to spend the day with that imbecile. ’Twas bad enough we were forced to endure his escort home—thanks to Mr. Waite.” Insufferable man.
      “But a headache? Could you not think of something more believable?”
      Faith huffed and rubbed her temples, where a dull burning had formed. “Truth be told, the man does give me a headache.” She laughed, and Hope joined her.
      “Now we have the rest of the day to spend together.” Hope’s eyes lit up. “What shall we do?”
      Yanking the pins from her hair, Faith ran her fingers through her curls, freeing them from their tight bindings and giving herself a minute to think. After Mr. Waite’s skeptical taunt, she knew she had no choice but to devote her afternoon to creating at least the illusion of running a successful soap business. The man was pure exasperation! His suspicions were ruining her plans. But what to do with her sister? “I have just the thing.” She forced a smile. “Why don’t you help me make soap?”
      “Make soap with you?” Hope snapped. “Why would I want to do that? ’Tis smelly and dirty.”
      “Come now, I assure you it will be enjoyable.” Faith slid her arm
inside Hope’s and smiled. “And you can tell me all about what is going on in your life.”
      “No.” Hope jerked from her grasp and backed away. “You promised to take me for a stroll in the park. You promised we would spend the entire day together, not slave away in some hot, sweaty kitchen.”
      “I can hardly take you to the park without proper escort. You have Mr. Waite to thank for that.” Faith snorted. “And I fully intend to spend the day with you. That is why I am asking for your assistance.”
      “I should have known.” Hope tugged on a lock of her hair and shook her head. “I should have known you would not follow through with your promise. Once again I find you are not to be trusted.” She clung to the carved banister in the entrance hall, her chest heaving beneath her violet muslin gown.
      Anger stormed through Faith.
Spoiled girl.
“Not to be trusted? How dare you? Why, I am doing this all for you. You and Grace.”
      “For me, you say?” Hope’s laugh took on a caustic tone. She waved a hand back toward the kitchen. “This is not for me nor for Grace. You are doing this for yourself, and you know it. At least be honest about that.” She sniffed and raised the back of her hand to her nose.
      The words stung Faith in a place so deep within her heart that they left her speechless. She didn’t know whether to scream or to cry. Finally, she inched toward Hope, giving her a soft, playful look. “We will have fun, I promise.”
      Hope’s sapphire eyes glossed over with tears. “You are doing this for yourself, and you know it,” she repeated, her accusing words echoing in Faith’s ears like one of Morgan’s shrill parodies.
      Faith longed to tell Hope that she would love nothing more than to spend a day in town strolling through the park, enjoying her sister’s company as if they were a pair of giddy schoolgirls. She wanted to tell her that her ruse of soap making was merely a cover for the real fortune Faith was acquiring on Hope’s behalf.
      But she didn’t. All she said instead was, “’Tis your choice. I must make soap. If you choose to join me, I would be most pleased. If not, you can hardly blame me for not spending time with you.”
      Daggers of fury shot from Hope’s eyes as she spun on her heel and ran upstairs. The slamming of her chamber door boomed across the house like an ominous gong. Why did it seem that the harder Faith tried to help her sisters, the greater a mess she made of everything?

Sir Wilhelm Carteret crept into the corruption of his mother’s sickroom. Though Miss Westcott had played the timid devotee today, he sensed a true regard, perhaps even affection, growing within her toward him. A pure lady, one inexperienced in the world, would certainly be somewhat frightened at the prospect of marriage—and in particular, the marriage bed. He grinned. That would explain her hesitant and even diffident behavior toward him, to be sure. He squeezed his nose against the miasma of stale breath, sweat, and disease that had taken residence within and now assailed him. A sickly moan reached his ears, and he swerved on his heels, suddenly rethinking his visit. But he must procure his mother’s approval of the match before he pursued Miss Westcott further. And he knew that wouldn’t be an easy task.
      “Willy, is that you?” The cracked voice split the thick air in the room.
      “Yes, Mother, ’tis I.” Sir Wilhelm tensed and trudged toward the oak bed at the center of the dismal chamber.
      “What are you doing sneaking around in the dark? Light a lamp and come forward.” She hacked a moist cough before continuing. “So much like your father. He always was a rat who preferred the darkness.”
      Retrieving a lamp from the walnut desk, Sir Wilhelm thrust a stick of pinewood into the glowing embers in the fireplace and lit the wick. The fire, which his mother insisted be kept burning day and night despite the weather outside, kept the master chamber both stifling and filled with smoke. Sir Wilhelm strained for a breath of fresh air as he approached the bed, the lantern casting an eerie glow over the walnut desk and chairs that guarded the base of the window and a vanity squeezed into the right corner. Wilhelm rounded a velvet divan and tripped over a pewter basin that protruded from beneath the bed. It was well past emptying, and vile contents of the chamber pot sloshed over his left ankle. Beside it, a bitter vapor wafted from a glazed apothecary bowl full of the physician’s latest mixture of herbs intended to cure his mother. A thin sheet of sunlight sliced through an opening in the heavy curtains and landed on the spilled contents of the chamber pot.
      Setting the lantern on the bed stand, he sniffed and peered down at the swollen, pasty pallor of his mother’s face. She had once been quite comely, but age and sickness, in addition to her constant disagreeable
spirit, had sapped her beauty long ago. Dark, hollow eyes shot to his, ever spewing their venom wherever they landed.
      On second thought, perhaps she had never been beautiful.
      “What have you been about, Willy? I trust you have been down to the House of Assembly as I instructed. You need to ensure the proprietor’s voice among these barbaric settlers.” She struggled to sit, flinging out a shaky hand for his assistance. “There are rumblings of dissent—especially among those who call themselves the Goose Creek men. They want Carolina to become a British colony. Can you imagine? Then where would we be?”
      Wilhelm reached behind his mother and assisted her into a sitting position, holding his breath against the stench of death that clung to her these past several years. “We would still have our landholdings, Mother.”
      Lady Eleanor Carteret, daughter of the Earl of Devenish, married to the son of Sir George Carteret, one of the original proprietors of the realm of Carolina, squared her shoulders and lifted her regal chin in the air as if her bed were the throne of England. But her breath came in short gasps, and she collapsed on the pillow behind her, breaking the facade of superiority that had more times than not sparked fear in all those around her.
      “Land without power is meaningless. There is plenty of land in this new world for everyone.” She pointed a crooked finger at him. “Power is what will secure our interest and our future.”
      Wilhelm turned his head and sneezed, his nose burning in the infested room.
      She gestured to a mug on the bed stand. “Hand me my elixir and tell me your news of Parliament.”
      Wilhelm grabbed the mug, took a whiff, and nearly gagged at the pungent odor, then placed it in his mother’s trembling hands. He held his nose. “What is that putrid stench?” He plucked his snuffbox from his pocket.
      “’Tis the medicines Dr. Kingston has prescribed for me. With these and the weekly bleedings, he guarantees my full recovery.” She took a sip, sending the loose skin of her face folding in on itself.
      “He will guarantee anything as long as you pay him.” Wilhelm sniffed a speck of powder then slumped his shoulders, allowing the calm sensation to filter through him.
      
“Enough of that. Tell me what is happening in the council.”
      “I did not attend today. I had some business at Admiral Westcott’s home.”
      “Pray tell, what business? Unless you have overcome your seasickness and plan on following in your grandfather’s grand footsteps.” She scrutinized him. “Not that you could. I fear you are not made of the same stout material.”
      “Admiral Westcott has been called to Italy, and…” Wilhelm ran a hand under his nose.
      “Quit sniffing and be out with it!”
      He straightened his back. “He has promised me his daughter Faith’s hand in marriage when he returns.”
      “As wife? Finally. I thought you would never draw the eye of a decent lady. Now perchance I will see grandchildren before I die.”
      Wilhelm fidgeted with a wrinkle in the sheets by his knee.
      “Although an admiral’s daughter is certainly beneath your station, I suppose a man like you cannot be too particular.” His mother pushed a spike of her wiry gray hair behind her.
      Wilhelm shifted the muscles in his back beneath his mother’s insults. He should be used to them by now, but for some reason, her words always hit their mark. “Regardless of her lineage, I assure you, she is a fine match. Beautiful, intelligent, strong. You would like her.”
      “Perhaps.” Closing her eyes, she leaned back onto the mound of pillows. “But it would have been nice to see you joined with a lady of your own class. Especially after all I have done for you. Ensuring your place in Parliament and among the lord proprietors instead of your Uncle Phillip. Do you realize the risks I took? The powerful people I crossed?” She coughed and held her chest as if she were taking her last breath. “Without me you would be nothing but a sniveling incompetent. You know everything I have done—everything I ever do—is for you.” A tear escaped her eye and weaved a crooked trail around line and wrinkle.
      “I know, Mother, and I am eternally grateful. I owe you everything.” Without her strength, her brains, her devious plots, his uncle Phillip would have taken over as head of the Carteret family.
      Yet he tired of the invisible chain that held him locked to her, as if the umbilical cord had never been severed. It sickened him as much as empowered him.
      Lady Eleanor huffed. “Nevertheless, I will be pleased to see you
married.” She looked away. “But you must promise to attend Parliament and follow my instructions to the mark. The future of this family depends on you.”
      Wilhelm squeezed his mother’s hand. “I will, Mother; I promise.” Yet no sooner did his hopes rise upon the wind than thoughts of Captain Waite shot them down.
      “Now what ails you, Willy?”
      “I fear there is another suitor who might divert Miss Westcott’s affections from me.”
      “How could any woman choose another over you?”
      Wilhelm had wondered the same thing himself, but after the past few encounters with Captain Waite and Miss Westcott, it seemed obvious the girl was far too innocent to understand the crafty manipulation and venomous charm of the commander.
      “I daresay, then.” His mother gave a haughty snort. “She is not as wise as you make her out to be. Dismissing your affections. Upon my word, ’tis unheard of. Who is this suitor?”
      “A commander in the Royal Navy, a callow, ignoble fellow.”
      “A lowly commander? What do you expect from an admiral’s daughter? She is not worthy of you.” She waved her bony hand through the air. “Let her go.”
      “I cannot, Mother. I must have her. I have never wanted anything so badly.”
      True to form, his mother took his hand in hers. “There, there, Willy. There, there. You shall have her, then. No woman dares to shun my dear Willy.”
      “What am I to do, Mother?” Having accomplished his goal, Wilhelm pushed back from her aged, decaying body. “I cannot force her affections.”
      “Perhaps not, but you can rid yourself of the competition.”
      Wilhelm was pleased to see that his mother’s desires ran along the same twisted lines as his own. “But how?”
      “We must eliminate him by cunning. Dig up his skeletons. Everyone has something reprehensible in his past. Find his and expose it for all to see.”
      She gripped his hand, her fingers like icy claws. “Ruin the man. Destroy his career.” Her eyes narrowed into the cold slits of a hawk hunting its prey. “Do whatever you have to in order to get what you want.”

R
unning her sleeve across her moist brow, Faith stirred the thick cauldron of lye and pork fat boiling in a large kettle atop the fire. She’d had no idea making soap could be so difficult and tedious. A sweltering August wind steamed in through the open door and, joining with the heat from the fire, transformed the kitchen into a giant furnace. She felt like a Sunday goose being roasted alive. As she continued to stir the bubbling fat, the muscles in her arms burned with a searing pain that matched the growing agony in her heart over the argument she’d had with Hope earlier that day.
      But now as Faith laid down the greasy ladle and patted her neck with the hem of the stained apron hanging at her waist, she found the task anything but enjoyable, and she supposed she couldn’t blame Hope for not wanting to partake of this noxious mess.
      She lifted a strand of her curly hair to her nose and cringed. The stench of lard saturated her. Grabbing a ribbon from the table, she tied up her thick tresses and took a step outside for some fresh air.
      Shielding her eyes from the bright sun sinking behind the oak trees that lined the fence, Faith watched Lucas brush down a horse across the way in the barn. When he glanced her way, she smiled, and he returned the gesture.
      Closing her eyes for a moment, she allowed the slight breeze to cool the fiery skin of her neck and face before she returned to the kitchen.
      Staring at the gurgling brew, Faith hoped she had put in the right amount of lye, or the soap would not harden correctly. From what she had learned from the ladies in town, soap making was an exact science and took years to perfect, and from the looks of things, it would indeed take her that long before she could produce one decent batch of soap. All her prior attempts had ended in a foul-smelling puddle of slop, not fit to
wash the cutlery with, let alone a person. Last month she’d been forced to send Lucas on a two-day journey to Beaufort to buy soap from one of the soap makers in town so she could sell it here in Charles Towne as her own. But she could not afford to be without Lucas for that long again, not when she was so close to acquiring the fortune she needed. Oh, why had she not chosen some other craft like perfume making or quilting?
      A deep chuckle sounded from the door. “So ye truly is tryin’ yer hand at soap, mistress?”
      Faith flung a flustered look over her shoulder at Lucas, whose large frame shadowed the doorway. “The ever-suspicious Mr. Waite dropped his glove of challenge upon me today. I had no choice but to accept.”
      “He did, did he?” Another hearty chuckle bubbled through the room like the aroma of her fatty stew.
      “You find that amusing?”
      “Aye, to see the”—he glanced both ways behind him—“notorious pirate captain the Red Siren covered wit’ grease and smellin’ like a rancid pig, all due to a simple comment from Mr. Waite. Aye, I do find it amusin’, the power he holds over ye.”
      Faith spun around. “He holds no power over me.” She tossed the ladle onto the table. Brown sticky globs splattered across the surface. Faith wiped the sweat from the back of her neck. “Other than the noose, I suppose.” She gave Lucas a sassy look. “And it will be your neck, too, if we are caught. Perchance then you might not find it so amusing?”
      The grin on Lucas’s mouth did not falter.
      Faith blew out a sigh, relieving her tension. “How else do you expect me to prove to the man where my fortune comes from when it suddenly appears?”
      He shrugged. “Seems to me such a man would never buy such a ludicrous tale anyway.”
      Faith sank into a chair with a huff. “I fear you are correct. But I must at least make a pretense of producing some soap, whether he buys the tale or not.”
      She batted at a pesky fly that must have found her new scent alluring. “But how else to convince him?”
      “All he be knowin’, mistress, is that the Red Siren be a lady with red hair.” He cocked his head. “That don’t prove nothin’.”
      “Good heavens, that is it.” Faith shot to her feet. “I know exactly
how to divert any suspicions he may have of my even remotely being the Red Siren.”
      Lucas’s brow furrowed.
      Outside the window, Molly strode by the kitchen, hoisting a basket of vegetables atop her head. Following Faith’s gaze, Lucas watched her over his shoulder until she disappeared into the house.
      Faith cocked her head and grinned. “No doubt, she’ll be coming here soon to cook supper.”
      “I knows.”
      “Why don’t you stay and talk to her, Lucas?”
      “She don’t want to be talkin’ none to me, mistress.” Disappointment tugged the corners of his mouth downward.
      “I would not be so sure.” Faith grabbed the ladle and shuffled back to the boiling pot.
      “Oh, saints preserve us. Whatever is that smell?” Molly’s voice sliced through the steamy room, and Faith turned to see the tiny cook push past Lucas and explode into the room like a firecracker.
      Faith shook her head. How could so much energy be contained in such a small package? “I am making soap, if you must know.”
      “Not in my kitchen, you’re not.” Molly set her basket down on the table and threw a hand to her nose.
      “Where else do you suggest?”
      Lucas stood just inside the door, his gaze taking in Molly as if she were the queen of some exotic land.
      Following Faith’s glance, Molly turned to the large groomsman. “What you grinnin’ at, you oversize fool?”
      “I’s grinnin’ at you, Miss Molly.” Lucas crossed his arms over his chest.
      Molly’s tongue went uncharacteristically still as if the heat in the room had melted it. She stared at Lucas dumbfounded, the attraction between them like a grappling hook pulling one ship to another and neither able to prevent it. “Well, stop it before I wipe that smile off yer face,” Molly shot back.
      “Good day to ye, then, Miss Molly.” Lucas nodded and headed out the door.
      “Good day, Mr. Corwin.”
      Faith gave Molly a crafty look.
      “Now don’t you be grinnin’ at me, neither.” Molly began unloading
her vegetables onto the table. Ripe tomatoes, green beans, okra, carrots, and summer squash.
      Faith’s mouth watered at the sight. She had not eaten since breakfast that morning. Resuming her stirring, she wondered why the expected froth had not appeared in her mixture. Flies began to swarm around it as if it were naught but bubbling horse manure. It certainly smelled as if it was. “My soap is nearly done boiling, Molly. Then I shall pour it into the frames and be out of your way.”
      “I dunno who you trying to fool, Miss Faith, but you ain’t made a bar of soap in your life.”
      “Perhaps, but there is a first time for everything.” Faith smiled, remembering the complete look of adoration on Lucas’s face when he had looked at Molly. Swinging around, Faith laid down her ladle and wiped the sweat from her brow with her apron. A first time for soap making and a first time for love. “I do not know if I should speak of this or not.”
      “Then don’t.” Molly directed a stern glance her way. “I ain’t in for no gossip.”
      “It isn’t gossip.” Lucas would certainly be furious, but she hated to see these two precious friends of hers lose out on something wonderful—something meant to be—due to pure stubbornness. She might as well just blurt it out. “Lucas is sweet on you.”
      Silence, save for the crackle of the fire and the hum of insects, settled over the room.
      Molly did not look up, but a slight quiver in her bottom lip gave her away.
      “Mr. Corwin? Hogwash. I won’t be hearin’ talk like that.”
      “Come now, surely you have noticed the way he looks at you.”
      “He looks the same way at the horses.” Molly laughed.
      Faith threw a hand to her hip. “He is handsome, strong, healthy, and a good worker, Miss Molly. He would make a fine husband.”
      “Husband?” Molly flinched, and the whites of her eyes widened against the encroaching darkness. “By all that is holy, what d’you think yer doing—matchmaking? You who swears never to marry unless you’re forced to. I declare, I never thought I’d see the day.”
      “I just think you two would make a good match, ’tis all.”
      Molly’s expression sobered. She set down the squash and eased into a chair. “I tells you, Miss Faith. I seen a lot of pain in my life. And it all
comes from caring ’bout people.”
      Faith took a chair beside the cook and gave her an understanding nod. After all, hadn’t all of Faith’s pain come from things that had happened to those she loved? But it suddenly occurred to her that she really knew nothing about this woman whom she had grown to care for these past months.
      “Molly, tell me about your past.” Though her voice was soft and pleading, Faith worried her words came out more as an order than a request.
      Flinching, Molly straightened her back then gazed at the floor.
      
As a servant would beneath a harsh command.
      A servant, not a slave, for the admiral paid her well for her position. But Faith considered Miss Molly more a friend than a servant. Did Molly know that? Or did the shackles of slavery bind her heart from ever giving itself freely to anyone in authority over her? “You may tell me only if you wish.” Faith laid her hand over Molly’s. “We are friends.”
      Molly raised her gaze and smiled. “I was torn from my ma and pa when I was jest ten, Miss Faith.” Her smile faded. “Sold as a slave to a landowner in Barbados. A kind family. But by the time I was sixteen, the mistress o’ the house got it in her head to be jealous o’ the way her husband was lookin’ at me. So they sold me.”
      “How awful.” Faith swallowed. The idea of slavery repulsed her. She could not imagine anyone finding it acceptable, let alone civilized. Yet how different was slavery from what had happened to her older sister, Charity?
      “Sold me to a vicious sugarcane farmer on Jamaica, a spiteful man, miss,” Molly continued. “He did things to me I’d rather not say.”
      Faith grasped both of Molly’s hands and squeezed them. “The only way I survived was by makin’ friends wit’ the other slaves. They became like family to me.” Molly raised her moist gaze to Faith. “But then one day, I watched my owner beat my dearest friend to death for stealin’ a banana from a tree. So’s I ran away. Left the only people I loved, once again.” She shuddered beneath a quiet sob. “That’s when I met up with the Franklins. They brought me here to the colonies and taught me to cook. But more important, they taught me ’bout the Lord. That’s when I gave my life to Jesus. ’Tain’t been the same since.” Her sudden grin quickly faded. “But o’ course, they both got killed in the Indian wars.”
      Faith closed her eyes against the burning behind them and swallowed.
How could this slight woman have endured so much agony in one life? And yet, oddly, she still clung to a faith that spoke of the goodness of God. Perhaps it was all she had left to cling to—this hope of a caring God, a hope that would surely shrivel beneath the next disaster.
      “You see, Miss Faith, everyone I’ve ever loved been taken from me. I can’t stand the pain no more. The only One who will never leave me is Jesus, but I ain’t attaching meself to no one else—no man ’specially.”
      Faith could understand Molly’s fear of getting close to Lucas, but she knew her first mate. He would never hurt Molly, would never betray her. Faith forced down an unseemly chuckle at how absurd, though true, her approbation was of a man who was a good groomsman but a better pirate.
      “Molly, I am so sorry.” She gave the cook’s hand a squeeze. “I had no idea you had suffered so much.”
      “Not yer fault, miss.” Her dark cheeks flushing, Molly withdrew her hand and stood. She stomped across the room, grabbed a knife from a counter, and began chopping the heads off carrots as if they represented her ex-owners.
      Faith laid a gentle hand on her arm, stopping her. “But I beg you, do not deny yourself love and happiness out of a fear born from other people’s cruelty.”
      A skeptical look crossed Molly’s face, but she said nothing.
      “Should you not be trusting God?” Faith asked with all sincerity then suddenly cringed. Where had that come from? God had certainly not proven Himself trustworthy in her own life and especially not in Molly’s.
      Molly laughed then, a warm, hearty chuckle that filled the room. “Well, mercy me, do you hear yerself, Miss Faith? ’Tain’t no hope for that batch of soap, but there may be hope for you, after all.”